4pQonT

110 THIS DIFFICULT INDIVIDUAL
believed in democracy: it lay beyond his experience.) The arts
have nothing to do with this. They are man's life within himself.
The king's writ does not run there." 18
It is interesting to note that, although the king's writ does not
carry, or should not carry, into the realm of art, the writ of democracy
makes no bones about plunging into this area. This explains
the fact that Ezra Pound has been the most persecuted artist of our
time.
"II. Walter Villerant to Mrs. Bland Burn.
My dear Lydia
We are surrounded by livestock. I enjoy certain animal contacts
. . . without malice. I have a 'nice disposition.' I pat them
like so many retrievers . . . ebbene? I live as a man among
herds . . . for which I have a considerate, or at least considerable,
if misplaced affection."
"IV. Walter Villerant to the ex-Mrs. Burn.
My dear Lydia
Stupidity is a pest, a bacillus, an infection; a raging lion that
does not stay in one place but perambulates. When two fools
meet, a third springs up instanter between them, a composite
worse than either begetter. We see the young of both sexes, and
of your sex which is the more fluid, sunk into amalgams, into
domestic and communal amalgams.
"I call on the sisters Randall, they are in the studio next to
their own, seeking companionship. I am deluged with a halfhour's
inanity, breezy, cheerful inanity, replies that were 'bright'
in '92, replies that are modelled upon the replies in short stories.
People imagine that to speak suddenly, and without thinking beforehand,
is to be brilliant. It feels so, the elder Faxton wrote
stories that would have been daring, in the days of Ibsen's adolescence.
The Soeurs Randall return to their studio, a brace of
callers is waiting. I am deluged again with inanity, bright, cheery
inanity. I flee waving metaphorical arms like a windmill.
"Because of amalgams, Bohemias are worth avoiding, the poor